


In the Beginning

by trollmela



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bilbo Baggins Destroys the One Ring, Gen, Ring-bearer Bilbo Baggins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-11-12 22:58:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11171859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trollmela/pseuds/trollmela
Summary: Bilbo was hiding something. Dwalin didn’t know what but, by Mahal, he’d find out. But then the little burglar disappeared completely on him, running out of Bree, and perhaps his ring had something to do with it. Certainly he wasn’t going to Mordor, was he? Well, Dwalin was going to have a word with him. A few words. Once he caught up with him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel to my story [In the End](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6277441/chapters/14384122) but reading it isn't necessary to understand this story.

He didn’t remember the ale being this bitter. Dwarves, of course, didn’t mind a bitter taste, but perhaps his more recent lifestyle had made him soft.

The innkeeper’s eyes had been on his jewels longer than his grim face and torn ear, no sign of recognition in his gaze while Dwalin remembered him very well. 

But he supposed he hadn’t been very interesting years ago for a man who was used to looking first at how much money a man was likely to spend in his business. 

The inn had not changed much. The same crowd of Bree inhabitants, traders and travelers occupied it, the same smell of thick broth, grilled meat, ale, wine, and bodies, some more, some less washed, lay in the air. 

Grarduid dropped onto the bench across from him. 

“The others are finished with their business. We have ten more homecomers.” 

“Good,” Dwalin only said and lifted his ale to his lips again. He sure preferred what was served in Erebor or even Dale. 

The King, Dain Ironfoot, had had the word spread that Erebor welcomed any dwarf; no few former citizens of Erebor had followed the call, but also many other dwarrow from various places in Middle-earth. The Blue Mountains, crowded for centuries after Smaug’s attack, appeared now almost empty; at least to those who had not known the dwarven dwelling before those days. 

A group of young men, locals, a bit tipsy, rose from their table near a corner and made their way out, calling their ‘good night’ to the bar keeper and one of the serving lasses. And there, previously hidden by their bulk, sat a very familiar figure. 

“You stay,” Dwalin grunted and rose, taking his stein with him. When he set it down on the other table, its occupant–who had been studying the table–flinched and turned wide, doe-brown eyes onto his disturber. Dwalin was pleased to see that his hand had also gone to his belt; perhaps their burglar had learnt something after all. 

“Master Baggins!” 

The hobbit’s face lit up and he seemed curiously relieved to see Dwalin. 

“Master Dwalin! What brings you so far West?” 

The little fellow could sure shake a hand and gave Dwalin’s hand a vigorous treatment. The dwarf clasped him on one shoulder, nearly sending the little fellow back down onto his bench. 

“I had business in the Blue Mountains. On my way back to Erebor now.” 

“Oh? Well, that’s good; wouldn’t want to hear that you have been exiled again. Are there, by chance, any other known faces in your company?” 

The hobbit tried to peer around Dwalin’s back. 

“None, but the other dwarrow would sure be interested in meeting our famous burglar, too.” 

Bilbo laughed a bit. “I wouldn’t call myself much to look at.” 

“And what are you doing in Bree, Master Baggins?” 

“Ah,“ he drawled, smiling a bit nervously and only meeting Dwalin’s gaze after a while. “Your company has ruined me. I’m no longer a hobbit content to sit in his armchair all day and tend to my lands like a proper hobbit. Instead, I’ve taken to going on walking holidays every so often.” He smiled impishly. “Last spring I even went as far as the Havens and visited the elves.” 

“Humph! Should have paid the Blue Mountains a visit! They would have given you a proper welcome!” 

“I meant to,” Bilbo’s joy dimmed a bit. “I asked whether Lady Dís was in, but she had already left.” 

“I thought Balin sends you letters? Didn’t he tell you about her arrival in Erebor?” 

Bilbo shrugged. “I get messages from him occasionally, but nothing lately mentioning Dís. I must not have received it, if he wrote. The way is long, after all.” 

Dwalin agreed. “I told him to use the ravens. They’re much more reliable.” 

“I’m sure they have more important things to do. How is everyone?” 

They chatted for a bit, and Dwalin was reminded about how simple-minded he had thought the hobbit to be when he had spoken of such idle things during their journey to Erebor. But something was different today. The hobbit was too tense, for one. He was gripping his stein tightly, which appeared so much larger in his hands than in Dwalin’s, but he hardly drank from it. He was also casting weary glances around the room every so often, and it occurred to Dwalin that the hobbit had not chosen to sit here by chance, with his back to the wall and good lines of sight into most corners of the room. Not that it helped him if he insisted on studying the wood grain of the table. 

But Dwalin was not clever with conversation. He tried, taking a page from his brother’s book and asking: “How is Hobbiton and your house?” And keeping an ear out for anything that might stand out. But nothing did. It was only the same inane chatter Dwalin was mostly used to hearing from Bilbo. 

Finally he was sick of it and he stared Bilbo down over his thick brows and watched Bilbo trail off and shift in his seat. 

“What are you staring at me for?” The little hobbit finally demanded. 

“You’re hiding something. You’re being shifty.” 

He spluttered. “Me! Shifty! Who do you think I am– I’m a respectable-“ 

“Baggins from Bag End, yes, I know. Now tell me something I don’t know.” 

Bilbo looked down at the table, and his hands around the stein tightened even more. Perhaps just becoming aware of his drink, he lifted it to his lips and drank. And drank. And drank some more until the stein was apparently empty and he set it back on the table. 

“Well, you know how my neighbors are. And my relatives.” He shook his head with a sigh. “I just don’t like it when they put their noses into my business. And my walking holidays, well, they think it’s their business. It’s very unhobbitish, they say. So I’d rather not be recognized and have everything get back to them.” 

It sounded so utterly implausible to Dwalin! Hiding, from his neighbors and relatives? Admittedly, during their journey Bilbo had found many occasions to complain of some hobbit or another, one woman in particular if he remembered correctly, a distant relative. And now Bilbo went on to recount his return home from Erebor and how he had found his belongings being auctioned off– well, Dwalin had never heard of any such thing happening to a dwarf, and he couldn’t blame the little fellow for being clever and a bit more suspicious. 

At the end of his tale, Bilbo gave a large yawn, followed by a hiccup, and said: 

“I think I’m going to head off to bed. Perhaps we’ll see each other again tomorrow morning?” 

“Aye, I think we can do that, burglar. Breakfast together? Bright and early?” 

Bilbo made a face. “That is something I definitely do not miss! Thorin waking everyone up just as dawn crept up the horizon! Together with all the times we nearly died, of course-,“ he broke off, his expression turning sad again. Of course some of them had died, there at the very end. 

“Good night, Master Burglar,” Dwalin said. 

The hobbit nodded. “Good night, Master Dwalin.” His hand lingered on Dwalin’s shoulder when he made his way past, then he disappeared up the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

The dwarven caravan was small, which Dwalin found much more comfortable than the large groups that had arrived in Erebor at the beginning. As much as his king desired to swell the dwarven numbers in their still newly resettled kingdom due to the work that was more than readily available, logistics were also far from easy. Dwalin himself only dealt with a small fraction of it, of course, but he heard his brother Balin talk and complain about it often enough. Sometimes he wore a contemplative and sad look, perhaps wondering what things would have been like if their king had been called King Thorin and if two smaller seats to either side of him had been occupied by two exuberant young dwarves called Fili and Kili.

With so few people, Dwalin didn't mind delaying a bit. But when he had finished his first portion of breakfast and Bilbo had still not joined him even though the sun had been up for a while now, he went to the barkeeper and said:

"Bilbo Baggins, which room is he in?"

"Mister Baggins, Master Dwarf? Why, he left this morning!"

"This morning?! When?"

"Oh very early! He chased me out of bed, too! The rooster hadn't even cried yet, it was just before dawn! He took his pony and rode off."

Dwalin could almost hear the horns of Erebor sound their alarms in his head.

"Did he say where he was going?"

"No, Master Dwarf, not at all. But two days ago he asked where he could find good maps for traveling. He's been here a few times, so I know he likes dreaming up adventures and collecting maps. But this time he specifically asked about travel maps, not one of those big and pretty ones he apparently likes to put up on his wall."

"And where did you send him?"

"Why, to Master Donovan of course! He sells such things in the general store."

Something was going on, Dwalin was sure of it. He and the Burglar hadn't been particularly close on their journey; but if there was one thing the hobbit was fussy about – in fact, there were many things – it was being polite. Dwalin, according to Balin anyway, didn't know a thing about politeness, let alone hobbit politeness, which seemed to be even more rigid, but he thought that leaving a friend without notice when you had agreed to break fast together was very impolite.

On his way out, he passed Grarduid, the dwarf who acted as his second in leading the caravan.

"I need to make an inquiry. Something is wrong with that hobbit," he said.

"Your Burglar?"

"Yes."

"We can stay an extra day, there's no rush yet."

"We'll see. Perhaps I can resolve it quickly."

At least the dwarrow didn't question him. Bilbo had a reputation among the dwarves, which was probably quite unknown to him. The business with the Arkenstone had been less than ideal, of course, but that aside, he had saved Thorin and served the Company a great deal. He was a respected hobbit among dwarves, and that counted for something.

The general store was opening its door for business just as Dwalin arrived. One advantage he had found in Bree was that the people here were quite used to different folks coming and going. And as he was clearly somewhat wealthy and no longer the homeless warrior dwarf he had been before, getting answers was relatively easy.

"Yes, the hobbit had a bit of a queer request, and I'm afraid I was rather unhelpful."

"Why, what did he want?"

The man leaned down and whispered: "He was looking for maps of the Dark Lands."

The Dark Lands? "Mordor?" Dwalin realized.

The man nodded.

"Naturally I didn't have any. I told him that if any such thing existed, he would have to look in the library. Now we don't have much of one, but I said that perhaps something from the Second Age or so had survived that could sate his curiosity. So that's where he went. I still managed to sell him some maps. Of Dunland, Rohan and Gondor and such."

"He bought those? Were they travel maps or more decorative, the pretty kind folks hang on their wall?"

"Oh no, they were very practical ones. Such as traders use if they don't know an area already. And he bought food as well, for the road home, he said. A bit queer that as well, I thought. The Shire hobbits always claim that their markets are better than ours, and it wouldn't have taken him long to find one if he was returning to Hobbiton."

"And where can I find the library then?"

The library was indeed not much. Dwalin might not have been the expert on books, but he had at least stepped into the library of Erebor and also of the Blue Mountains a few times, and Bree's, compared to those two, was quite small.

"Oh yes, Master Baggins is a regular visitor!" The librarian, a hobbit, exclaimed. "This time he came by twice. Are you, by chance, one of those dwarves he said he'd traveled with once?"

"Yes."

"Oh indeed! I would never have believed that a Shire hobbit would travel anywhere! You see, I'm a Bree hobbit, and we're _very_ different from our cousins in the Shire. But even we wouldn't go far if we can help it. And why would we, we have a perfectly good home right here-"

Dwalin growled. "What was he looking at last time he was here?"

"Ah, he was looking into magic. We don't have much about that, though, only two or three books, and he went through those. He seemed quite flustered by something! That was several days ago. And then, two days ago, just before I closed, he came again and wanted to copy some maps. I had to go though, I mean, it was already past supper! But since I know him, I told him to just do as he wished, lock up when he was done and drop the key in my letter box if it was too late at night to knock. I don't know how long he stayed, but he dropped the key in my letter box just as discussed. He's a respectable fellow, Bilbo Baggins. The entire Baggins clan is known for being very respectable, in fact. His mother was a Took, but they're fine folk, too-"

"I want to see that magic book he looked at. And what books you have of maps. Perhaps something from the Second Age," Dwalin interrupted him.

"Very well, Master Dwarf."

But the hobbit gave him a look which showed quite plainly that he didn't think Dwalin would know how to read a book. That wasn't quite true, Dwalin was perfectly capable of reading both Khuzdul and Common, but that didn't change that he wasn't much of an expert. Unfortunately he couldn't think of anyone in the caravan who would be much more suitable _and_ discrete. The more he discovered, the stranger he found the whole thing. Dwalin knew something of secrets at least, and magic, now that reminded him of that queer way the hobbit was able to disappear and appear at will. They had never found out how the hobbit did it; Bofur had suggested that it must be some kind of hobbit magic, but, if that was true, Ori at least had never heard of it and Ori was nearly as knowledgeable as Balin.

So Dwalin didn't know much about books. But he could track down any orc, warg or other being in the wild. The books the hobbit librarian found for him were old but they weren't used often. They were even stored at the very top of a shelf, so the hobbit had to climb a long ladder to retrieve them. While the hobbit went off to find any books with maps Bilbo might have consulted, Dwalin studied the spines of the books. He put them all down on their spines and let them drop open where they wished. If the hobbit had read any passage for a while, he might have worn out the binding enough that the book would automatically open at least close to what he had been reading.

The first two books opened up on random pages. One spoke of a spell to wake the dead (Dwalin shuddered a bit at that), the other revealed a few pages on dragons. Although dragons could be considered to be of interest to Bilbo, Dwalin didn't think there should be anything that would lead the Burglar to depart so quickly.

The hobbit librarian returned with two small books and a bunch of maps just as Dwalin allowed the third book to drop open.

"Here is what I can think of, Master Dwarf. Master Baggins isn't in trouble, is he?"

Dwalin thought that the librarian was rather late in inquiring about that, but said:

"No, not at all. Bilbo is a dear friend to the dwarves of Erebor, and to me, as he was part of my Company years ago. There is nothing to worry about, Master Hobbit."

"Very well. Do you need help?"

"I will let you know if I do." And he glowered a bit, chasing the hobbit quickly far away.

He turned to the third book on magic objects. And there was talk of a ring, and the more he read of the rather short paragraph, the deeper the chills settled into his bones: it spoke of a magic ring which enabled his wearer to disappear; forged by none other than Sauron, the Chief of Darkness. It seemed extremely unlikely to Dwalin that their hobbit had somehow acquired the One Ring. How had Bilbo come by that trinket anyway, if that was really what enabled him to become invisible? Certainly he hadn't used it when they had come upon the trolls. Then they had arrived in Rivendell, and the Company had been together until Mirkwood–

The goblin tunnels, he remembered now. Bilbo had been separated from them at some point, where exactly he did not remember, and then he had suddenly appeared whole and healthy after they, the rest of the Company, had escaped from the goblins. Thorin had questioned it, even Gandalf, the wizard, but he had brushed it aside and then the wargs and Azog had caught up with them. They had never asked again, as far as Dwalin knew.

He supposed it didn't matter so much whether Bilbo truly had the One Ring. It was enough if Bilbo _thought_ he had it and it had somehow chased him away.

The paragraph on the One Ring was short. It ended with a reference to the personal account of Isildur, King of Gondor, and the belief that the ring could not be destroyed anywhere but in the same fires where it had been forged: Mount Doom. Dwalin shut the book and called the librarian over.

"Yes, Master Dwarf?" The hobbit asked with an aloof expression. Apparently he had recovered from Dwalin's stare.

"Would you happen to have a copy of any personal notes written by Isildur, King of Gondor? Preferably of his experiences in the Battle of the Last Alliance?"

"Funny, now that you mention it, Master Baggins asked for the very same thing!"

"Well, do you?"

"No, no, such lofty things aren't kept in Bree. I told Master Baggins that if any such account exists, it would probably be kept only in the library of Gondor."

"I see. Thank you, Master Librarian."

That explained then, why the hobbit had run south, to Gondor or Mordor. But would Bilbo actually go that far, Dwalin wondered? He remembered now that the hobbit had enjoyed Rivendell very much, too. If he sought knowledge, surely he could simply go to the elf lord there and ask him. In particular as, now that Dwalin remembered his history, Elrond had fought himself in the Last Alliance.

But perhaps Bilbo did not know that. Although he had appeared to be learned and interested in all sorts of stories and history, Dwalin doubted that hobbits in general cared all that much about battles, in particular when they had taken place centuries and millennia ago. Dwarves, on the other hand, found battle stories to be very important and educational.

Now that Dwalin already had an idea, he had a brief look through the maps. He already knew now what Bilbo would have been interested in, so he gathered those. The way to Gondor he knew, though. He, a dwarf who had traveled quite a bit to all sorts of towns with and without Thorin and other dwarves, would have known which roads to follow and that one would always receive better information while on the road. There were also good reasons for travelling off road, but maps didn't help one there. Dwalin didn't bother copying them.

He had one last stop to make. As early as Bilbo appeared to have left, he must have been forced to ask one of the gate wardens to open a gate for him. Bree had four gates, as the town was situated at the intersection of two great roads: the route from east to west and from north to south. Hobbiton lay west of Bree. If Bilbo _hadn't_ returned home, and if he was indeed traveling to Gondor, or, Mahal forbid, Mordor, he should have left through the south gate; Rivendell, on the other hand, lay east.

But this time luck wasn't with Dwalin. The night watch had already gone home and wouldn't return until it was his turn again that night. Needless to say, Dwalin wasn't going to wait that long and forcibly convinced the watchman on duty to tell him where his fellow watchman for the night lived, as well as all the other ones who had been on duty at the other gates.

It was noon by the time Dwalin returned to the inn and his caravan.

"Well, have you found the hobbit? Are we leaving?" Turitar greeted him.

"You're going to Erebor, yes, I cannot. Can you bring our brothers home alone?"

Turitar's eyes widened in surprise, but he nodded. "Of course, Master Dwalin. Has some misfortune befallen the Burglar? Does he need our aid?"

"I don't know for certain, but I don't want to risk it. I will write up two missives, one for my brother and the other for the King, which I want to you to take with you."

"Of course! But where are you going?"

"To Gondor," he said only.

The dwarf hummed. "A far journey for a hobbit, no?"

"Indeed. Which is why I think he may need help, even though he did not ask for it."

"Well, it must have been some urgent business if he stood you up for breakfast."

Yes, indeed. Dwalin understood now why Bilbo hadn't wanted to tell him much; perhaps he had been afraid that Dwalin would make him say what weighed on him and left without telling him for that reason. Certainly Bilbo wasn't a good liar. He hadn't considered, though, that Dwalin would follow him. Clearly he still didn't know enough about the stubbornness of dwarves.


	3. Chapter 3

By the time Dwalin left, Bilbo was almost a day ahead of him. They both had ponies, but Dwalin considered himself to be the hardier traveler. He was convinced that he would catch up with Bilbo very soon. Balin, if he had been here, would have called him an idiot. In Dwalin's defense, he could not have known that he wouldn't find Bilbo until he had reached Dunland. How in Mahal's name the little creature had managed that, Dwalin did not know. He might have given up, if he hadn't found witnesses of Bilbo's stay in Tharbad, where he had bought more provisions.

So there he was, finally in Dunland and quite vexed with himself – and Bilbo – when one night, while looking for a place to rest, he smelled a fire. Dunland and its inhabitants didn't have the best reputation among the dwarves. He knew from his wandering days that one should not appear too rich or too poor in these lands, for either way misfortune could befall one easily. Tales of robbed travelers weren't few, and Dwalin would have felt better to have capable companions with him. Most merchant caravans took safety in numbers in these areas and often found travel companions in Tharbad. Needless to say, some were far less trustworthy than they appeared.

For that reason, Dwalin could not rest until he had found the source of the fire and who occupied it. With a sorrowful grimace he remembered the incident with the trolls, where Master Baggins had first proven himself to the Company.

Dwalin wasn't Nori, who could slip through the shadows and foliage easily without being seen or heard; but men, for the most part, didn't have ears keen enough to hear even a dwarf when he chose to creep upon them (now elves were another story entirely). Moreover, the area was rocky, and if dwarves knew anything, it was rock.

He hadn't even gotten very close yet when he heard raised voices; most of them were cheerfully malevolent, but one stood out to him, which was high and indignant. He found himself on a raised ledge of rock, with the camp fire and a group of people a few feet below him. Five men there were and, unfortunately for that last one but fortunately for Dwalin, one hobbit.

Dwalin was surprised they had caught him at all. They must have come upon him unaware, to find him visible and imprison him. At least they had not killed him yet. But it seemed that Dwalin had come just in time, for just then the leader of the band said:

"Now let's see what wealth a creature like you is hiding in his clothes."

"Ruffians!" The hobbit cried out, struggling uselessly against the rope.

Unwilling to wait any longer, Dwalin took a running leap over the ledge and dropped down onto them with a great battle cry. He had felled three by the time they even gathered their wits and managed to draw their weapons. But those stood no chance against a dwarf: one broke his sword on Dwalin's axe before Dwalin cleaved his head in with it. Another one he caught in the chest, and then there were only two, but they stood no better chance against him than their companions and found their end in the dirt.

Once the men were taken care of, Dwalin turned to where the hobbit lay tied up.

"Dwalin?!" Bilbo stared at him with wide eyes as Dwalin dropped one bloody axe on the ground next to him and unsheathed a knife.

"Master Baggins!" He cut him free. "Do you know how long I've been chasing you?!"

"What? Chasing me?" Bilbo spluttered. "I didn't ask you to follow me!"

"And how exactly did you think you would make it to Gondor all on your own? Let alone to Mordor?!"

"Mor– how– how do you know that?"

Dwalin grasped the hobbit by his shoulders and shook him hard, perhaps a bit too hard for a little fellow.

"What were you thinking?!"

"Dwalin! Stop–shaking–me!"

The dwarf let him go, and Bilbo ended up falling down on his backside. He looked up at Dwalin still with those wide, doe-brown eyes.

"Don't you see?" He cried out finally. "It's Thorin all over again! It's even worse. That ring... it makes people mad. They want it. Like those men here. I know because the creature I took it from– it was mad, and probably so am I. Mad Baggins-" He chocked out a sound between a laugh and a sob. "That's me: Mad Baggins."

Dwalin breathed out a heavy sigh.

"Bilbo. We're in Dunland. You get attacked here, One Ring or not. This isn't the Shire, where it's safe."

Bilbo huffed.

"Grab your things and let's go," Dwalin said. "My camp is back there."

* * *

Bilbo looked much better with his clothes put to order and a flask of water in his hand. The robbers had clocked him good on the head, but thankfully the hobbit hadn't received anything worse than a bump from that. One of his hands was lingering in his waistcoat pocket, and Dwalin didn't have to think hard to guess what the hobbit kept there.

"How do you know your trinket is the ... the One Ring?" Dwalin asked. Even with dwarves not being as suspicious as elves or men about dark magic, he didn't like talking about Mordor and everything associated with the master of the orcs.

Bilbo shrugged. "I guess I don't. But how many things are there that can make you disappear? When I wear the ring, the world turns dark and hazy. It's not very pleasant, actually, although I admit to some satisfaction at how easy it makes avoiding Lobelia." He sighed. "But I couldn't forget Gollum. That's what the creature called himself who I took the ring from. I nearly killed him, you know."

"That was in the goblin tunnels?"

"How do you know?" Bilbo wondered.

"It's the only place where the company was separated from you before Mirkwood, and you didn't seem to be able to disappear before."

Bilbo told him the whole story then, how the goblins had missed him herding the dwarves to their king and he had fallen down into the depths; how he had encountered a strange creature that called itself Gollum, and they had bargained for Bilbo's life, which made Dwalin laugh at the hobbit's cleverness; and finally how he had come across the ring during his escape and realized that it made him invisible when Gollum had looked right through him.

"I wondered what its story was, and where it came from. I wondered if there were any other magic objects and started researching. But in the end it was pure chance that I found those accounts of the ... the One Ring."

"There could still be other magic rings. Maybe yours wasn't written about."

Bilbo shrugged. "If you found something that could be what the Dark Lord was looking for, would you just let it lie?"

"So where are you going?"

Bilbo chewed on his lip. "Gondor. I need to track down what Isildur wrote on the ring. And if it's the same ring – well, Mordor isn't far from there either."

" _Bilbo_ ," Dwalin started, then halted. There, across from him, sat a very determined hobbit, he realized.

"Maybe, if I destroy it, there won't be any orcs anymore. Gandalf told me what he was up to after he left us in Mirkwood. Did you know that Sauron had settled in the north of Mirkwood and that was why the forest was so sick? He and Lord Elrond and others chased him out. They assume he's gone back south. They couldn't destroy him, Gandalf said. Nobody can. But in that book in Bree it said that Sauron put _himself_ into that ring. If the ring is destroyed, maybe–" He shrugged again. "Gandalf didn't actually tell me, but I'm not blind: Erebor's location is strategically pretty important. Azog might have had a grudge against Thorin, but that alone wasn't the reason why he followed us and why that battle happened. Azog might have killed Thorin– but he wasn't responsible alone and it's not enough that Azog is dead. Not to me; not if I can do something about it."

Bilbo looked down into his lap, not even seeing how speechless he had rendered Dwalin. There the little hobbit was telling him about killing the Dark Lord that various races and armies had failed for centuries to destroy. And all of that, at least in part, for a dead Dwarf King Bilbo hadn't known for more than a year and who probably hadn't even liked him for most of that time.

"Thorin was my friend, too, you know," Dwalin finally said.

"I know. And you were probably a better friend than–"

"I don't believe in better friends," Dwalin interrupted him. "Without you, Thorin wouldn't have survived when Azog caught up with us after Goblin town. And as far as the Arkenstone is concerned – you did what you needed to." Dwalin sighed. "I thought him lost, I tell you. I thought there was no way to break him free of that gold's spell. If you hadn't taken that stone... if things had somehow happened with Thorin surviving but still under that curse... I think he would have considered that a much worse end than what he got."

Bilbo's expression crumbled and he pressed his face into his knees and sobbed. Things were probably different for hobbits, Dwalin guessed. They didn't understand what a good death meant for a dwarf. Even he had to admit that, at times, it was poor consolation. But the king was dead; long live the king.


	4. Chapter 4

They reached Minas Tirith after several more days of, thankfully, uneventful travel. At the gate, the guards of the White City gave them strange looks but admitted them. They knew Dwarves, but Bilbo, with his big, hairy feet, strange ears and bare face didn't look like a dwarf except at first glance. They had probably never seen, perhaps never even heard of hobbits.

"If we pretend you're a defect dwarf, we might get less attention," Dwalin grumbled.

Bilbo swung around. "Excuse you?! A defect dwarf?!"

Dwalin only grinned into his beard, laughing heartily out loud once the hobbit finally understood that it was a joke. He mumbled what were probably unflattering things under his breath, and threw the dwarf several indignant looks. They were lucky that they were on horseback: on foot, the men might not have noticed them next to their ponies. Even to Dwalin, the bustle of Minas Tirith was more than what he was used to. He had never been in Minas Tirith, only some of the smaller towns in Gondor when work (or his search for work) brought him there. The stone, Dwalin noted, was as brilliant as he had heard, and although it was not dwarven work, it was admirable enough. Apparently, even his people were a rare sight, for he received enough looks himself.

"We need to find an inn," Dwalin muttered to Bilbo, who rode by his side.

"Suppose we'll have to ask then," the hobbit nodded. He stopped his pony by a stall and called out to the merchant there. "You have some fine apples there, sir."

Dwalin almost wanted to roll his eyes, but perhaps there was some merit to Hobbit manners. And, indeed, not much later, Bilbo had procured them not only fruit, but also information about something called the Old Guesthouse, for which, however, they needed to turn back and return to the first level.

"Say, do you have much money left?" Bilbo awkwardly leaned over to him from his pony.

The dwarf snorted. "Enough for this city," he replied. "As for where ever we're going next: I don't think we'll need any there."

Bilbo nodded and looked east. The volcano was quiet, they had seen that much already. From what Dwalin had heard, they would be able to see Mount Doom from the Citadel at the top of Minas Tirith; and that was where they needed to go to find the library.

"Good afternoon, good sir. My name is Bungo Underhill, and my friend here and I are looking to rent a room."

It was probably pure chance that the innkeeper had seen them coming in the door, for Bilbo's head did not even reach the bar. Dwalin was a bit surprised by the hobbit giving a false name, but he had to admit that it was good sense. The innkeeper bent over his bar and gave them a long look.

"Well, well, folks from far away, I see. What kind of rooms would you like? We have everything here, from private rooms for each of you to a place in the dormitory, if price is an issue. But man-sized they're all, I'm afraid. We don't get many dwarves around here," he looked to Dwalin, "or other little folk." Bilbo's people, apparently, truly escaped his knowledge.

"We'll share a private room," Dwalin rumbled, and Bilbo nodded.

"Very well." He named his prize, and Dwalin might have haggled with him, but Bilbo had already put down the required coins. The innkeeper was quick in taking them and handed down a key. "Upstairs, the last one on the right."

"We also have two ponies that need to be taken care of," Dwalin added.

"Ponies? Well, they won't need much space. Let me call my boy who'll take them to the stable. A long ride?"

Dwalin only grunted, and the innkeeper gave up his line of questioning.

* * *

They walked up to the seventh level. Every so often, Bilbo stopped to take a closer look at something and Dwalin let him. Mostly he found something interesting to look at himself.

When they reached the top, they found themselves on a square paved in white, a white tower, and various other, smaller buildings. At the center of the square stood a withered tree, guarded by several soldiers who bore the white tree of Gondor on their livery. Bilbo was immediately drawn to it, only stopping when the closest guard shifted. Dwalin, in the meantime, went to the edge of the square where one could see Mount Doom. It was a tall mountain amid a desolate, black land. Even the clouds looked more threatening there. He wondered what the road there was like, and did not like their chances.

"Who do we have there? Two familiar faces!"

They swung around and found a figure with a long gray beard standing there, clothed in gray and holding a staff in his hand.

"Gandalf!" Bilbo cried out overjoyed.

"Well, well, Bilbo Baggins and Dwalin of Erebor."

Dwalin straightened. Hearing 'Erebor' with his name was still unexpected, and every time it filled him with pride.

"What an unexpected meeting. What are you doing here?"

Bilbo opened his mouth, then, nervously, looked at Dwalin and then back at Gandalf. The wizard frowned, immediately realizing that something was up.

"Perhaps a more private setting would suit us better?" He suggested.

Dwalin was skeptical of the wizard, perhaps as suspicious as Thorin had been. And yet he realized that this matter was of the highest import for Middle-earth, and much too big for a hobbit and some dwarf warrior to deal with alone.

"We need to go to the library," Dwalin said. "And probably not the one for the public."

Gandalf nodded slowly, studying them both thoughtfully. "As it happens, I know the Steward. And I'm sure we'll find a private corner there."

An introduction to the steward was unavoidable, of course. Gandalf kept it short, and Steward Turgon seemed decent enough.

"I have heard of your brave quest to reclaim Erebor and would be honored to hear about it from you."

"We would be honored to tell you," Bilbo replied. "Perhaps tonight?"

"A wonderful idea, so be it."

"Bilbo is a passionate scholar of history," Gandalf said, and Bilbo nodded next to him.

"I have heard great things about Minas Tirith's library and would love to see it all and do some research. I'm trying to find out about the origins of hobbits. You see, our annals are not always complete or very reliable, and I was wondering in general how much of our existence and events were recorded by men."

Dwalin nearly laughed. In Rivendell, the dwarves had learned to their great shock that some hobbit legends claimed their race to be the product of dwarves lying with elves of all people. Needless to say, they had been in quite an uproar and difficult to pacify with the hobbit's claims that their history books weren't the most reliable. The Rivendell elves, with few exceptions, had not felt any happier about the idea.

"Of course, not a problem at all," the Steward replied. "I hope you won't be too disappointed, though. To be honest, I don't know if we have any accounts of your race."

"Since I know the library quite well," Gandalf took over again, "and would like to catch up with my friends, I would be happy to go with them and show them around."

"Very well. I look forward to seeing you tonight then at dinner."

Gandalf smiled. "In case you have not heard of the hobbits' stomachs then, I would advise you to have plenty of food brought. A hobbit can easily eat three times of a man's portions."

The Steward gave Bilbo a wondering look, studying the small stature from head to toe. Bilbo had lost some weight again since leaving Hobbiton, and he shifted a bit on his bare toes but smiled charmingly at the man.

Turgon laughed. "I will notify the kitchens immediately."

* * *

Gondor's library wasn't much different from Erebor's, in Dwalin's opinion: tall shelves as far as the ceiling, big, dusty, and especially _old_ volumes ordered according to some mysterious system that took apprentices weeks to learn. Bilbo had asked the innkeeper earlier, and, as he had said, there was a public section and one accessible only to those who had the Steward's permission. At this time, neither was particularly crowded.

Gandalf found a dark little corner with a few chairs, where they sat.

"What brings you to Gondor then?"

Bilbo again looked questioningly at Dwalin, but the dwarf wouldn't say or hint at anything, so he sighed and blurted out:

"What do you know of the One Ring?"

Immediately, Gandalf straightened. His gaze sharpened and he seemed to be doing his best to penetrate Bilbo's mind. Gandalf, Dwalin had noticed, was occasionally dismissed by those who saw only an old man in him and had little or no idea that he was a wizard or what that entailed. Certainly Thorin and other dwarves were not the only ones who were suspicious of him: it was not clear with whom his allegiance lay — if anyone. But here he showed at least a glimpse of what lay behind his mask of a well-meaning but occasionally grouchy old man.

"Why would you ask that?" He demanded.

"Let's treat this as a purely scholarly matter, wizard," Dwalin growled.

Gandalf, if anything, became more suspicious.

"Sauron forged it in the Second Age in secret, made to be the master of the Rings of Power forged by Celebrimbor and his smiths in Eregion. He distributed those rings among the races, including the dwarves and men. The One Ring was made to control their bearers and gave birth to the Nazgul, the ringwraiths, and is also said to have had some adverse effects on the dwarven kings who wore the rings given to them. The Enemy seemed invincible until, through a stroke of luck, Isildur cut the Ring off his finger during the last battle of the Last Alliance. Isildur, against the elves' counsel, did not destroy it, but kept it as a trophy. He died only two years later, ambushed by orcs, and the Ring was lost."

"When you told me of Dol Guldur," Bilbo began, "you suggested that the Enemy could not be defeated as long as the One Ring existed."

"That is correct."

"What, if any, magical powers did the ring give its wearer?"

"Well, it is assumed to have various powers, but the most obvious one is that it makes the wearer invisible–" Gandalf cut himself off. "No!"

"I don't know!" Bilbo replied desperately. "So how do I know what ring I picked up beneath the goblin tunnels?"

Gandalf stood. "Wait here."

They waited. Bilbo shot Dwalin an uncertain look, but he couldn't tell what the dwarf was thinking. They seemed to wait forever, until Gandalf returned with a stack of very old parchment. He dropped inelegantly onto his chair and began to read out load:

_"The year 3434 of the Second Age. Here follows the account of Isildur, High King of Gondor and the finding of the Ring of Power. It has come to me the One Ring. It shall be an heirloom of my kingdom. All those who follow in my bloodline shall be bound to its fate for I will risk no hurt to the Ring. It is precious to me though I buy it with great pain. The markings upon the band begin to fade. The writing which at first was as clear as red flame has all but disappeared. A secret now that only fire can tell."_

"Fire," Gandalf mused. "Have you ever thrown it into a fire?"

Bilbo shook his head. "No. No, why would I?"

"Sounds like you should."

"Then let's head back to the guest house," Dwalin suggested.

* * *

Gandalf would probably have taken any available fireplace. But it was summer, it was warm, and they got strange looks from the innkeeper when they asked to light the fireplace in their room.

"He's got to warm his feet," Dwalin grunted with a finger pointing at Bilbo.

The hobbit sputtered, and the innkeeper, after a look at Bilbo's naked toes, laughed.

"Well, I'm not surprised by that. But are you sure you don't want a warm bath instead? You know, we have excellent shoemakers in Minas Tirith. There's one on the third level I can recommend. His name is Saebald."

"No, no thank you," Bilbo replied vehemently.

The innkeeper shrugged.

The fire finally burned merrily, and Bilbo stared into the flames. Gandalf loomed behind him, while Dwalin stood at Bilbo's shoulder. Neither one was much of a comfort to Bilbo at that moment.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Throw it in," Gandalf ordered.

Bilbo hesitated still. Dwalin shifted. With a flick of his fingers, Bilbo threw it into the flames.

"There," he stated, turning away with a glare at Gandalf.

He made to walk away, but he didn't get far before turning back to see what was happening to his ring. For a while, nothing did. Dwalin wasn't a gold smith; he knew that the fire wouldn't be hot enough to melt a normal ring or damage it. Something appeared finally, writing on the outside of the ring, which lit up slowly in the flames.

"Get it out." Gandalf's voice sounded hoarse, and, if Dwalin was not mistaken, he was dreading something.

Dwalin fished it out with a poker and dropped it on the floor. The letters were recognizable now.

"Elvish," Dwalin noted.

Gandalf nodded. "Tengwar."

Bilbo reached out to poke at the ring. "It's cool," he wondered, and picked it up. He turned the ring to follow the writing. "I can't read it. It's not Sindarin, is it?"

Gandalf had closed his eyes. It was definitely not a good sign.

"No. It's the Black Speech of Mordor. Translated, the words mean: _One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them. This is the One Ring."_

Frightened, Bilbo dropped the Ring. He looked like he might faint, like he did at when he read the Company's contract, and Dwalin tensed to be ready to react. But the hobbit straightened up. He stepped back from the ominous artifact, and his throat bopped when he swallowed hard.

"What are we going to do now?"

Gandalf sighed. "I will have to contact my order: Saruman, Radagast, too, if I can. Elrond-" He broke off. "Why didn't you go to Rivendell? You could have asked Lord Elrond for counsel?"

Bilbo was visibly confused.

"In Bree… I found a book which mentioned Isildur's personal accounts. The librarian said that I'd only find it in Minas Tirith." He sighed. "I didn't think of Elrond until I was half-way to Gondor."

"It doesn't matter now anyway," Dwalin said.

Gandalf huffed. "True." He thought for a moment.

"I have to talk to the head of my order. Saruman is the wisest of us all, he'll know what to do. I'll leave tomorrow. You two," he gave them a pointed look, "you stay here in Gondor and wait for me!"

Bilbo was studying the floorboards, feeling like a tween caught doing mischief, and nodded.

"What of the Ring? Will you keep it?" He asked, but Gandalf shook his head.

"There is no telling what atrocities the Ring or its master could achieve through a bearer like me. It's better if you keep it, Bilbo." And, with a glance at Dwalin, he added: "Dwarves are hardy, and have proved their resistance against evil before. And yet-"

"I'm to keep my paws off it," Dwalin finished.

Gandalf gave an unapologetic, curt nod and, like a thunderstorm, whirled out of the room, who knew to where.

* * *

They saw each other again at the Steward's table that night. Steward Turgon was an excellent host, and Bilbo a more than pleasant guest despite his personal uncertainties. One who did not know him would not have thought him to be anything but nervous at being the personal guest of such an illustrious man as the Steward of Gondor. He looked to Gandalf once in a while and Dwalin figured that the same question was on Bilbo's mind as on his own: was Gandalf planning on telling the Steward what object was held beneath his roof?

But Gandalf gave no indication of planning to do so, drinking wine and enjoying his food like all the others at the table. Besides the Steward, there was his son Denethor, a young teen just on the brink of becoming a man and starting his career in Gondor's army, various advisers, and finally some captains and higher ranking men of Gondor's military. Bilbo was astonished how different the captain of the infantry was compared to the leader of the Rangers of Ithilien or the captain of the cavalry. In a way, each of them represented the typical characteristics one would expect from their unit.

"Will you tell us then of the reclaiming of Erebor?" Denethor asked, doing only a passable job of hiding his eagerness. The older men at the table perked up; clearly they had all been awaiting to hear that tale.

Bilbo and Dwalin exchanged a look, then glanced over at the wizard.

"Bilbo is an excellent story teller; most hobbits are, but Mr. Baggins more than most," Gandalf said. "Besides, I was not present for the entire journey, as on occasion I had business elsewhere."

Dwalin waved for the hobbit to go ahead, and he found that not even he had cause to regret it. At home, in Erebor, he had heard the story from various bards too many times, and he had often retreated when anyone outside the company spoke of the quest; he hadn't been the only one of the Company to do so. Most of them, he thought, did not enjoy looking back on all parts of the journey. Bilbo's tale was honest, though of course he omitted and embellished like most story tellers did. He spun an almost amusing tale while never neglecting to showcase how brave each and every dwarf had been.

"And what was your role during the quest?" Denethor asked at one point when Bilbo took a break to wet his throat.

Bilbo put down his cup. "I was the burglar. I was to go into the treasury and find the Arkenstone, the jewel of the dwarven kings."

"He came in handy before that, though, when he got us out of the elven king's dungeons," Dwalin put in.

"So you saw the dragon?"

Bilbo nodded and resumed his tale.

"What a shame," the son of the Steward declared at the end, "Thorin Oakenshield was the only dwarf brave enough to fight against the dragon with only a small force, and yet he did not get to be king of his reclaimed home."

"Indeed," Bilbo confirmed.

"Did you know him well? What was he like?" The teen inquired again, missing the warning look his father gave him.

"Denethor, perhaps our guests would rather not-"

"It's all right," Bilbo interrupted, though signs of old grief now marked his face. He looked cautiously to Dwalin.

"He was a good dwarf. He was..." he struggled to find the right words. "He would have been a good king."

"Aye," Dwalin agreed quietly. "I grew up with him and I knew him all my life. I can tell you a bit of Thorin, before and after he became Oakenshield."

Bilbo looked relieved, and soon riveted like the rest of the table as Dwalin found himself recounting stories of old about his friendship with Thorin.

* * *

Gandalf left the next morning at first light. He emphasized again that Bilbo should not reveal the Ring or give it to anyone else; that he and Dwalin should wait for his return and only him personally and not a message. His warnings and elaborate list of what not to do took so long Dwalin tuned the wizard out and Bilbo didn't look very much like he was paying attention by the end of it either.

When the dirt had settled on the cobble stones after Gandalf's horse's hooves, Bilbo turned to Dwalin and asked:

"Shouldn't we have told the Steward?"

Dwalin stared at him. "I don't think the wizard wanted him to know."

"Ah."

Perhaps the hobbit understood, perhaps not. Dwalin hadn't gotten a bad impression from Turgon at all, but dwarves were a secretive race and he therefore tended to prefer too many secrets rather than too few. If he (or Thorin) had been king and known of a magical, potentially very dangerous artifact under his roof, he would certainly have wanted to know. But from the standpoint of the party keeping the artifact, he thought it better that as few people as possible knew.

Bilbo shook himself. "It's time for second breakfast," he stated. "And then I want a nap. It's too early for a decent gentlehobbit to be awake."

The afternoon Bilbo spent in the library, and Dwalin sharpened his weapons and made what repairs to his outfit and weapons were necessary. It wasn't difficult to find a smith who was willing to lend his workspace to a dwarf for a few coins. At dinner, Bilbo was quiet, but Dwalin noted again the amount of food the hobbit ate. Only in Rivendell had he been able to see the hobbit indulge, for in Laketown he had been sick and professed to have little appetite.

A voice nagged at him, sounding eerily like his brother Balin, and he faked sleep that night until the early morning. He heard Bilbo rise and quietly pack his bag and make for the door.

"Where are you going, Bilbo?" Dwalin's voice made him freeze.

"I... I..:"

The dwarf rose. "If you're going to Mordor, then so am I."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The joke about hobbits being the children of dwarves and elves is an idea I wrote about in an earlier story of mine called “The Origin of Hobbits”. I couldn’t resist using it again.
> 
> I’m going to mark the story as complete. I originally considered extending the story to include the journey to Mordor and Dwalin’s and Bilbo’s rescue after the sequel “In the End”. Unfortunately, however, the muse hasn’t been kind with me lately, which is why I decided to end the story here, which was the original ending I’d envisioned.
> 
> I hope that’s not too disappointing and that everyone enjoyed the journey.


End file.
